


The Fruits of Autumn

by Gigi_Sinclair



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-18 08:57:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8156467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigi_Sinclair/pseuds/Gigi_Sinclair
Summary: "Everyone says college is supposed to be the best time of your life. If that's true,Matt thinks, yanking open the door to the coffee shop, then I might as well kill myself now."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> “No man can taste the fruits of autumn while he is delighting his scent with the flowers of the spring." Samuel Johnson
> 
> Written for Huxloween. Chapter One prompt: Pumpkin Spice Lattes.

Everyone says college is supposed to be the best time of your life. _If that's true_ , Matt thinks, yanking open the door to the coffee shop, _then I might as well kill myself now._

He's been a college student for a month, which is more than enough time to know he hates it. He hates his engineering classes. They consist entirely of boring professors getting off to the sound of their own voices, and feature none of the hands-on stuff Matt loves, and at which he excels. He hates the people. His RA, who's named Poe and looks about forty, is always asking if Matt wants to play hackysack and/or "chillax", which Matt really does not, and Matt's roommate has already put in for a transfer. That's fucking fine. Thanisson is an asshole and an obnoxious jerk, and he snores besides. Matt hates every single thing about college and every person he's met there, with the exception of Kylo Ren. 

They met at the gym. Matt had seen Kylo around before, and had put him down as one of those girly art geeks, with his long hair and his black nail polish and his perpetual aroma of weed. When Matt went into the gym one day after class, however, he found Kylo on his back, bench pressing more than Matt could ever hope to lift. He wasn't even straining. He handled the weight like it was nothing, lifting it over and over again. Matt stared. When he was done, Kylo sat up, pulling off his shirt and using it to wipe the sweat from his face and then from his beautiful, glistening abs. 

Matt had never seen a body like that, not in real life. Kylo's eight-pack is better than nearly everything Matt has seen online, and Matt has done some very thorough online research. Stunned, Matt stood there gaping, until Kylo got up. 

“Hey,” Matt said, suddenly. He couldn't let the man get away without saying something. “Nice...” He trailed off. “Work.” Matt winced at the stupidity of it. 

“Yeah.” The man looked at him like he was crazy. _Maybe I am,_ Matt thought. “Thanks.” 

“I'm Matt,” Matt went on, desperately. He couldn't stop now.

“Kylo,” he said, and walked away. 

For the past two weeks, Matt has made it his mission to find out all he can about Kylo Ren. He wouldn't call it stalking, exactly. That's what losers do to women they want to fuck. Matt doesn't want to fuck Kylo Ren—although he can't honestly say he'd be totally averse to the idea—but he would like to be Ren's friend, if he had the faintest idea how.

Kylo seems to have two friends already: a beefy blonde woman Matt has also seen in the gym and a skinny redhaired guy he hasn't. Every afternoon, they meet at the same table in the student's union building. Sometimes they play cards, sometimes they study, sometimes they just hang out. It was there, as he sauntered by as casually as he could as many times as possible, that Matt learned they were going to the campus coffee shop tonight. 

Matt hates coffee. He also hates coffee shops and the posers who hang around them. But for Kylo Ren, he'll do just about anything.

Once inside, Matt demands a large pumpkin spice latte from the girl behind the counter, because that's what the woman in front of him orders and he doesn't want to look like he doesn't know what he's doing. It's much more expensive than he expected. Matt has to dig into the bottom of his vest pockets for change, while the guy behind him sighs like Matt's keeping him from saving lives or some shit. Matt wants to turn around and punch him in his stupid impatient face, but he doesn't want to get kicked out of here before he can see Kylo. Instead, he turns around and glares. It's the redhead, Kylo's friend, dressed like a douche in a tie and honest-to-God navy blue blazer. With a sneer, Matt turns around and throws the credit card his mom told him was “only for emergencies” onto the counter. 

Once he has his drink, Matt stands back. The redhead gets his coffee, something with a lot of foam and a lot of syllables. He carries it to a table at the front, where the blonde is already sitting. The coffee shop is crowded. Some long-haired girl is playing a weird kind of flute on the stage, and it seems like a lot of people have shown up to see her. Matt wants to get closer to the douchebag, since that's no doubt where Kylo Ren will go when he comes in, but the place is too full. There is an empty table at the very back, near the bathrooms. Matt slams the coffee on the table hard enough for a little to spill over the edge, and sits down. 

“Um,” comes a voice. Matt looks over. To his astonishment, there's a man sitting at the table already, so far back as to be all but concealed by the shadows. 

“What the fuck are you doing there?” Matt snaps, surprised. 

The man blinks. “I'm, ah, I'm just, um, sitting. Here. With my coffee.” He holds up a white mug identical to the one they gave Matt. “Sorry,” he adds, pathetically. It seems like a good word to describe him. His skin is sallow, but his eyes are red, like he's got severe allergies. He's wearing a baggy sweater with holes in the sleeves, and his red hair hangs lankly on either side of his face. Matt's never seen him before. 

“Are you hiding or something?” 

“No. No, I'm just sitting.” The man sighs, like this is a depressing revelation. “But you can stay, if you want. I'm not, um, expecting anyone else.” 

“Fine. Whatever.” Matt turns away from the man. Still no sign of Kylo.

Matt takes a sip of the pumpkin spice latte. It tastes like ass. He puts the mug back on the table. Full of nervous energy, he wants to do something. Pace, maybe, or throw something against the wall. Neither of those seem like good options, so he turns to the man on the other side of the table. “You like coffee?” Matt barks. He can't think of anything else to say.

The man blinks repeatedly, like there's something in his eyes. “Not, um, not especially. My, my therapist said it would be good to, ah, get out.” 

“Oh.” At the mention of a therapist, Matt feels a flicker of empathy. “Fucking shrinks, huh? Always think they know what they're fucking talking about.” They never do. “You a student here?” 

The man coughs. “I do, ah, online courses.” Matt can't imagine it. Listening to a droning professor is bad enough when you're in the same room. It must be ten times worse having to watch on a computer. 

“Does that suck?” 

The man shifts, although whether it's to nod or shake his head, not even he seems sure. It brings him far enough into the light, however, that Matt sees a blue mark on his forehead. “You got a tattoo on your face?” That's metal as fuck, Matt has to admit. It doesn't seem to fit with the rest of the guy, who still looks like he'd be happiest if he could blend into the wall. 

“It's not, ah, not exactly a tattoo. In that sense.” 

Whatever it is, Matt doesn't care enough to ask any follow up questions, not when he sees Kylo Ren walk into the room. Normally, Kylo wears ripped black jeans and faded T-shirts with the names of bands Matt's never heard of, and isn't sure really exist. Matt's tried to adopt the aesthetic himself, but while Kylo makes it look cool, Matt just looks like he ran out of clothes before laundry day. Now, though, Kylo is wearing a long black robe and high black boots, with a black and silver mask pushed up over his long hair. He carries something in his hand, a black blob. Matt can't make out what it is. The whole ensemble looks like he's wearing a Halloween costume a month early, and Matt has never seen anything more awesome. He sips from the latte, just to moisten his dry throat, then makes a face when he remembers how terrible it tastes. 

Kylo waits beside the stage as the girl with the flute gathers her things. When she's done, the server who got Matt the latte steps up. Her hair's done up in a really weird style, three buns on the back of her head. “All right, everyone,” the server says. “Welcome to the first poetry night of the new semester!” She pauses, like she's waiting for applause. There are a few scattered claps. Matt's too entranced by the sight of Kylo Ren to join in. “First up is...” She looks at a card in her hand. “Kyle Rin.” 

“Kylo Ren,” Kylo corrects.

“Right,” the girl says, squinting at the card. “Sorry.” 

As Kylo strides onto the stage, he lowers his mask so it covers his face. He reaches the centre and stands, completely still, for a long moment. Some of the audience begin to shift restlessly, but Matt looks on, rapt. He'd expected to spend the evening covertly casting glances at Kylo from across the coffee shop. This—being allowed, and even encouraged, to stare at him on a stage—is a million times better.

The guy at Matt's table doesn't move or make any noise, which is good, because Matt doesn't want to have to kill him for being a distraction. At last, Kylo holds up the object in his hand. It looks like another mask, although this one seems to be damaged, almost melted. When he speaks, Kylo's voice sounds weird, probably modulated by some kind of microphone. “'Forgive me.'” Kylo addresses the mask. “I feel it again. The call from the light. Supreme Leader senses it. Show me again the power of the darkness, and I'll let nothing stand in our way. Show me, grandfather, and I will finish what you started.”'

It goes on for a while. Kylo stops addressing the mask and starts seething about "the murderers, traitors and thieves you call friends"with what seems like genuine aggression. When he claims he's being torn apart, Matt truly feels for him, and when he collapses on the stage, Matt understands he's witnessed something spectacular.

Afterward, there's a stunned silence. Matt recovers first, beginning the applause. The rest of the coffee shop patrons join in, eventually, although Matt's clapping is far more enthusiastic and, in his opinion, appreciative than their half-assed attempts. The guy at the table with him claps pretty loudly, though, and Matt glances over, to show his gratitude. 

“I don't,” the man says, blinking again. Or maybe he never stopped. “I don't, ah, really _get_ poetry. I don't think.”

“It's okay, man,” Matt says, magnanimous. He doesn't understand it, either, but that just goes to show what an awesome poet Kylo must be. Anyone can write crap for the masses. This must be true art. “It's not for everyone.” 

“No. No. Right. Of course.”

Kylo stops by the table where his friends sit, briefly, then, to Matt's astonishment, turns and walks in his direction. Matt's heart triples its pace. His throat is dry again, parched this time, even though his palms are sweating. His mind works desperately, seeking something cool to say, something that will show Kylo just how much he appreciates and totally understands his epic poetry. He opens his mouth, still not sure what's going to come out of it, but Kylo goes right past him without even glancing Matt's way. He leaves through a door in the back of the coffee shop. 

A moment later, the redhead follows him. Matt hates that guy already. When he shoots Matt a snotty look, like Matt's something his pet—no doubt an equally douchey cat with a douchey name like Mildred or something—puked up on the living room rug, Matt has to use all of the anger management techniques he's learned over the course of several shrinks to keep from grabbing the man from behind and slamming his head into the table. Even with the visualization of peaceful ocean scenes, counting to ten, and many deep breaths, it's still a close call. 

“Here.” When he's regained control of himself, Matt pushes the nearly untouched pumpkin spice latte at the guy across from him. “You can have this.” He doesn't wait to hear the man's stammered reply. Instead, he follows Kylo Ren's path out the door. 

He doesn't know what he's going to say, but he has to say something. Matt's not nothing; he's not nobody. He just wants Kylo to give him a chance. They could be great friends, he knows it. 

The door leads into a narrow alley, overshadowed by trees. The leaves are starting to change colour, and a few early ones have fallen, creating a mottled yellow, red and green mosaic on the ground. There's a groan. Matt turns, the door still in his hand. Kylo is kneeling on the fallen leaves at the end of the alley, his mask pushed up on his head and his face in the redhead's crotch. The redhead leans against the graffiti-strewn fence, his eyes closed and his pale hands in Kylo's black hair. “Fuck, Kylo,” he mutters, in a snobby English accent that reminds Matt of the shows his mom watches on PBS. Kylo's head bobs indecently. There's no doubt what he's doing, and although it makes Matt's eyes hurt to look at it, he can't turn away. 

Matt knows he should get out of here, but he's frozen in place. He stares, his face heating with every obscene sound and lewd movement he sees in front of him. When Kylo pulls back a little, the redhead's eyes open, and Matt ducks back, out of sight. “Say it,” Kylo says, his voice rough. 

The other man laughs, a grating, irritating sound. “Say what?”

“You know, Hux,” Kylo replies, practically begging. “It.” There's a renewed sucking. 

“Today is the end of the Republic,'” Hux says. It's stagey, like he's repeating something he's memorized. “'The end of a regime that acquiesces to disorder. At this very moment, in a system far from here, the New Republic lies to the galaxy while secretly supporting the treachery of the rogues of the Resistance.'” With every nonsensical word, his tight-assed voice gets breathier, less composed. When he starts to pant, Matt finally, finally, regains control of his body. He lurches back inside and slams the door behind him. 

Someone else is on the stage now, a very tall, very hairy man bellowing what seem like random noises. Matt doesn't pay any attention. He can't get what he's just seen out of his mind. He can't even decide if he wants to. 

“Are you okay?” 

Matt looks down. The guy at the table looks up at him, big eyes still blinking a mile a minute. “What?” Matt frowns.

“You look, um, you look a little...” He trails off. “Forget it.” He hangs his head, his hair falling in front of his face and cutting him off from the world. Matt envies him that ability. _Maybe_ , he thinks, _I should grow my hair out._

“Hey,” Matt says. The guy looks up nervously, almost cringing, like he's expecting Matt to hit him. Matt should like that. He enjoys being feared, normally, but right now, it just makes him feel even weirder. “You want to get out of here or something?” Matt doesn't really want to be alone, although he can't articulate why.

“Where, um, where would we...”

“I don't know. The bar? I could use a real drink.” The pumpkin spice latte is still on the table, apparently untouched. Obviously, the other guy didn't like it any more than he did. _At least he's got taste_ , Matt thinks. 

“I'm not, ah, I'm not, not, not twenty-one yet.” Neither is Matt, but he's had a fake ID since he was fifteen. “But, ah, I've got beer at my apartment. My therapist doesn't know that, no one knows that. It's a secret. I don't know why I told you. I shouldn't have told you...”

“Relax. I'm not going to rat you out.” Certainly not if he's offering to share. Matt smiles. To his astonishment, the other man smiles back. It's small and fleeting. If Matt had blinked he would have missed it. He didn't. “Come on,” Matt says, a pleasant, if strange, warmth rising in his chest. “You can get me that beer.” 

“O-okay,” the man stands. 

“I'm Matt,” Matt says, as they move through the crowd toward the front door. Matt's not going to risk going out the back way again. 

“Techie,” the man replies. It can't possibly be his real name, but Matt doesn't care. He doesn't understand poetry, he doesn't understand Kylo Ren, and he doesn't understand Kylo's asshole boyfriend, if that's what Hux is. Right now, Matt doesn't even understand himself. All he knows is that, despite what just happened, he suddenly feels like college might not totally suck after all. For the moment, that's all he needs. 

That, and to never hear the words “pumpkin spice latte” again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Huxloween prompt Candy, although this chapter is exclusively Matt/Techie. See the end notes for mild content warnings.

Techie's apartment is everything Matt wants for his own place, when he finally gets one. It's not big. There's only one bedroom, and that's more like a closet, but Techie's stuff is out of this world. Equipment is stacked up like he lives in a server room, which Matt suspects he would like to, and he has three huge monitors set up on two desks. Sometimes, they play games. Sometimes, Techie shows Matt his own work, programs he's written and even a collection of little figurines, animals and people and objects, that Techie twists out of ends of copper wire. He's a little jumpy about those. They're spread all over the place, but he doesn't like Matt touching them, so Matt doesn't, even though he thinks they're pretty fucking cool. It's pretty fucking cool, too, that Techie listens with appropriate awe when Matt talks about Kylo Ren, about the weights he can lift and about his epic poetry, which Techie himself witnessed. Matt doesn't talk about what he saw later, in the alley. It seems best to let that slide down the mental garbage chute, although Matt does it fish it out on occasion, like when he's jerking off in the shower. 

Most of the time, Matt and Techie watch movies. Techie likes old ones the best, even though Matt, proud of his technological prowess, shows him how to stream stuff that's still in the theatres. They usually wear headphones, since Techie has a couple of asshole neighbours who like to complain. If it was up to Matt, he'd tell them to go fuck themselves, but Techie seems really worried about bothering other people. Matt used the earbuds that came with his phone, until one day he showed up to find a pair of big white wireless headphones like the ones Techie wears waiting for him, still in the package.

“I'll pay you back,” Matt said, sliding a paring knife through the sealed plastic. Even as he said it, he knew it was a lie. Headphones like these probably cost about as much as he made all of last summer, bussing tables at an Applebee's back home. 

“Don't worry about it,” Techie replied. 

They always sit in the same places. Techie is on the upholstered desk chair with wheels, and Matt is on a wooden chair they brought in from the little kitchen area the first time he came over, after that weird poetry reading, and which seems to have never moved back. Tonight, as Halloween gets closer, they're watching a Frankenstein movie from the 1920s or something. It's boring as fuck. Matt's expectations were low. Watching other old movies with Techie has led him not to be too hopeful about anything made before, like, 2005, but this is even worse than usual. Matt feels himself nodding off, his chin falling onto his chest. Then he hears a sniffle beside him, and jerks awake to see Frankenstein and a kid playing beside a lake.

He looks over at Techie. The apartment is pitch dark, except for the light coming off the screen. It glows blue on Techie's pale face. Techie's pretty, kind of. Matt's noticed that, over the last couple of weeks. Like a girl, Matt would say, but apart from a couple of one night stands that were strangely unsatisfying, except for the bald fact he got laid, he doesn't know anything about girls. 

Tears are running down Techie's cheeks. Matt shifts on his kitchen chair, suddenly uncomfortable. He taps Techie on the arm, to get his attention. 

“Hey, you want a drink or something?” Matt stands up. Techie shakes his head. Matt hesitates, for a moment, wondering whether he should put a hand on Techie's shoulder or do something to try and comfort him. If he was the one crying, Matt decides, he wouldn't want Techie to make a big deal out of it, so Matt says nothing and goes over to the fridge. 

Techie always has beer, although he prefers to drink soda himself. Specifically, he prefers to drink bucket-sized Big Gulps. Half a dozen empty plastic cups line the shelf beside the fridge, alongside the amber-coloured pill bottles containing Techie's various medications. Matt reaches past them and pulls a Bud from the bottom shelf of the fridge. 

He and Techie have spent a lot of time together over the last few weeks, after Matt's classes and between them and, lately, sometimes when Matt's supposed to actually be in class. He's even taken to crashing on Techie's sofa, since Matt's roommate Thanisson's request to transfer still hasn't been approved. But Matt doesn't really know anything about Techie. He doesn't know what's wrong with him, apart from a general sense that he struggles with anxiety and probably a lot of other shit, too. He doesn't even know his real name. 

“Here.” Although Techie didn't ask, Matt brings a couple of Twizzlers back from the kitchen. Techie loves those, too. Really loves them. Matt's never seen anyone eat as many as he does. Matt opened a cupboard, once, looking for a plate, and found a dozen large packages, stacked up like Techie was hoarding them for winter. Now, Techie spools the candy into his mouth without taking his eyes off the screen. 

When the movie finishes, Techie wipes his eyes with one hand and pulls off his headphones with the other. “Did you like it?” He asks, eagerly. 

“It was really, ah, different.” It's not a lie. “Hey, Halloween's coming up. We should get, like, a pizza and a really scary movie for that night.” Matt doesn't need to watch any more sentimental black and white shit. Techie probably doesn't, either. 

“Like what?” Techie asks. 

“I don't know. I'll find something.” Matt glances over, to Techie's ugly lumpy sofa and the pile of mismatched blankets Matt sleeps beneath. “We should set it up so we can watch it on the sofa, too.” Matt's tired of sitting on the hard kitchen chair night after night. 

Techie looks at him, his pale eyebrows drawn. Matt shifts. Was that a bad idea? Is that something he doesn't like to do? Matt frowns. He can't be expected to know what Techie's issues are if they never talk about them. He was just trying to be friendly, for fuck's sake... “Okay,” Techie says, interrupting Matt's mounting agitation. “Are you sleeping over tonight?” 

Matt glances at the time. Nearly one o'clock. “Yeah. I mean, if that's all right.” 

“It's fine.” Techie hesitates, like he's going to say something else. Matt waits for it. After a long moment, Techie adds, “Want to play Call of Duty?” 

If they do, he'll probably sleep in and miss his eight-thirty class. “Sure.” Matt puts the headphones back on and settles in to the chair. 

***

As predicted, Matt wakes up well after his first class has started. Instead of learning about multivariable calculus, he has Pop-Tarts and Twizzlers with Techie, and they watch some Japanese cartoon Matt has to admit is more badass than anything he remembers from when he was a kid, except maybe for the old He-Man show, which he used to watch with his mom. They download a few episodes of that, to compare. Then they debate whether He-Man would be able to take the Incredible Hulk in a fight. Matt ardently defends the position that, despite the size difference, He-Man is a dedicated and cunning magical warrior, and royalty besides, while the Hulk is a scientific freak and therefore He-Man would undoubtedly win. By the time Matt looks at the clock, he's missed the start of his noon class, too. 

Rather than race over just to show up panting and late, he goes back to his dorm room to get some clean clothes. Thanisson's already there, sitting on his bed looking at his phone. 

“Hey. Matt.” Gritting his teeth, Matt steps into the room. “You going to keep sleeping at your boyfriend's place?” 

“What?” 

Thanisson glances up. “Just asking, man. I won't go through the trouble of moving out if you're not going to be here anyway.” 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” A vein rises in Matt's forehead. He can feel it pop and pulse, as he clenches his hands into fists. In two strides, he's crossed the tiny room and grabbed Thanisson by his T-shirt. Thanisson's not a small man. Still, even though he's been neglecting his weight routine lately in favour of hanging out with Techie, Matt is strong enough to lift him off the bed and slam him against the wall. 

“Jesus!” Thanisson's eyes bug out. His phone clatters onto the ground as he brings up his hands to claw uselessly at Matt's fists. “Put me down, you fucking psycho!” 

Matt holds on. “What do you mean, my boyfriend?”

“Unamo says you're with some red haired guy. She saw you in McDonald's.” Matt thinks back. He had convinced Techie to go out to eat, once, more than a week ago now. They'd had Big Macs and fries, and Techie had accidentally squirted ketchup on Matt's jacket. Techie had been mortified, trying to wipe it up with napkins until Matt told him it really didn't matter, and they'd gone back to his place to have Twizzlers for dessert. Normally, Matt would have been apoplectic with rage over something like that. It was a nearly new jacket, and he hates ketchup, the sickly smell and the slithery feel of it, but for some reason, he didn't even mind. _Maybe_ , Matt had thought at the time, _all that therapy is finally paying off._

Matt releases Thanisson, dropping him back onto the bed. Thanisson rubs his collarbones, over-dramatically.“He's not my boyfriend," Matt barks. 

“Fuck you. I'm out of here.” Thanisson picks up his phone. “You're lucky it's not broken,” he snaps, on his way out the door. “And don't worry, I'll be gone for good as soon as I can.” 

“Not soon enough for me,” Matt calls back.

When he's gone, Matt sits on the bed that is, nominally, his, although Thanisson's right in that he hasn't slept in it for a while. He should start, clearly, unless he wants even more people getting the wrong idea about him and Techie. Not that he cares if people think he's gay. He's not a fucking homophobe, for God's sake. But if Thanisson thinks it, and Unamo thinks it—Matt can't quite remember who she is, but she's likely that sour-faced girl he met at the freshman mixer, the one who rolled her eyes when, for lack of anything else to say, he tried to tell her a mostly fictional story about a really epic keg stand he did after prom—then maybe other people think it, too. The thought makes something shift in Matt's stomach. 

Or maybe it's just too many Twizzlers for breakfast. _That's probably it_ , Matt thinks, and he pulls off his shirt.

***

Matt doesn't mean to uncover Techie's past. It's not like he's looking for it or anything. Sure, he'd like to know, but he also knows what it's like to really, really want to put shit behind you. 

He's lying on Techie's sofa one afternoon, playing on his phone and eating Techie's Twizzlers while Techie watches one of his online lectures, his headphones over his ears. Matt scrolls through a few sub-reddits, feels anger begin to bubble within him, as usual, and closes the site before he can do something stupid and irrational, like type an all-caps reply to a guy who's adamant a mouse could kill a scorpion. He thumbs through Cracked for a while, then goes over to CNN, to glance at the news headlines so he has some vague sense of what's happening in the wider world. That's where he finds it. 

He wouldn't have paid any attention, if not for the photo. It's of an Asian woman, probably in her late twenties, well-dressed and professional-looking. Her hair is swept back off her face and there, on her forehead, is a blurry blue tattoo almost exactly like the one Techie half-hides beneath his hair. He's saving up to get it removed. That's all he's ever told Matt about it. 

Matt scrolls down so fast, his phone slips from his grasp. He grabs at it, his hands suddenly unsteady, as he stares at the article. _A Story of Survival: one woman's life in “Ma Ma” Madrigal's foster home of horrors._

Matt's not dumb. He knows stuff like this happens all the time. He doesn't have any personal experience with it, thank God. His dad was a shit, but he was gone before Matt could walk, and if any of his mom's boyfriends so much as looked at Matt the wrong way, she dumped them the same day. Still, he's heard stories, of course. This is one of the worst. A woman known as “Ma Ma” Madrigal had a dozen foster kids for more than a decade, and she treated all of them worse than fucking slaves. She even branded them, like chattel. Matt feels sick just reading about it, a stomach-twisting, bile-raising nausea that only gets worse when he reads: “One of my brothers has permanent eye damage from Ma Ma withholding his medication if he made her mad, which was a lot of the time. He's lucky he's not blind.” 

Techie slurps his drink, his straw rattling in the nearly empty Big Gulp cup. Matt jerks his head up. _He doesn't want me to know this._ If he did, Techie would have told Matt himself, right? Matt stuffs his phone in his pocket as Techie glances over his shoulder. 

“Want to order sushi for dinner?” Techie asks. 

Matt panics. There's no other word for it. “Sorry,” he says, and he means that in a lot of ways. “I've got to go.” He leaves, almost running out of the apartment, before Techie can find out what he knows. 

Matt avoids Techie for days, using the convenient excuse of midterms. That doesn't mean Matt stops thinking about him. He's always on Matt's mind, always, both Techie himself and the things that must have happened to him. Half on purpose, Matt finds Techie's foster sister's book in the campus bookstore. He keeps going back to look at it, but every time he reaches for it, his hand jerks away frantically, like it has a mind of its own. 

Matt fails all of his midterms. The last, on Halloween, he doesn't even attempt. He shows up, takes one look at the exam paper, and walks out without even bothering to write his name on the sheet. As he heads back to his dorm, hating everything and everyone including himself, he runs into the RA Poe, who holds out an orange plastic bowl of tiny chocolate bars. “Hey, man. Happy Halloween.” 

“Yeah.” Matt ignores the bowl and tries to move past him. 

Poe, subtly, moves to block his way. “Listen, Chris told me about what went down between you two.” 

“Chris?” 

“Chris Thanisson,” Poe replies. Matt had no idea that was his first name. He really doesn't give a fuck. “I get it, man. I do.” Poe looks at Matt earnestly. Matt wants to punch him or, at the very least, to yell, “No, you fucking don't.” Before he can do either, Poe goes on, “It's tough, but you need to get a grip. Know what I mean?”

Matt clenches his fist. “I've got to go.”

“Right. Right. Of course.” Poe doesn't move. It's hot, suddenly. Beads of sweat form on Matt's forehead and running down his neck. “Hey, you know, my partner Finn and I run an LGBTQA board games night on Thursdays. This week is Settlers of Catan. I can text you the meeting place, if you and your friend are interested...” 

“Whatever,” Matt says, because it seems the easiest way to get rid of him. He pushes past Poe, who lets him, and slams the door to his room. 

He can't stay. The room is too small, too oppressive. Matt hasn't been to the gym in more than two weeks, but he grabs his bag from beneath the bed and heads across campus, running like there's something chasing him. 

Kylo Ren is there. Matt never even considered the possibility, which just goes to show, he thinks, how fucked up he is right now. Matt considers turning around and leaving, but Kylo looks up from the bench where he sits, shirtless, doing bicep curls, and it's too late. 

“Hey,” Kylo says. Matt glances over his shoulder, just to make sure he's not talking to someone else. “It's Matt, right?” 

“Uh huh.” Matt's mind is an unhelpful fog, unable to form any coherent thoughts, let alone a witty response. 

“You were at the poetry reading a few weeks ago.” 

“Mmhm.” 

“What did you think?” 

“Good.” Matt coughs. 

“Yeah?” Kylo beams. 

“Uh, yeah. Great. Wicked.” Matt wants to disappear, but at the same time, he never wants this moment to end. 

“My grandfather was a great poet. Unappreciated." Kylo frowns, darkly. "I really want to, you know, carry on the family legacy.” Matt nods, then keeps nodding, suddenly unable to control his neck muscles. “A friend of mine is having a Halloween party tonight," Kylo goes on. "I know it's short notice, but if you feel like coming, go for it. You don't need to wear a costume or whatever. Unless you want to.” Matt can't believe he heard right. He couldn't have heard right. Maybe he's dead, Matt thinks, wildly. Maybe he was, like, hit by a car on the way from the dorm to the gym, and this is as close to heaven as he's ever going to get. 

“Uh...” Matt grunts. 

“You got your phone?” Matt scrambles to hand it over. Kylo takes it, his big fingers flying over the screen. “There's my number. Text me, and I'll send you the address,” he says, like this is an everyday conversation and not the absolute end of the fucking world. He puts the weight back on the rack. “See you later, man.” Kylo saunters off. Matt, his head buzzing like someone's just punched him in the face, stares at the muscles, shifting elegantly beneath the smooth skin of Kylo's back, until he disappears into the locker room.

***

The party is being hosted by Hux, Kylo's douchey maybe-boyfriend. Learning that nearly gives Matt second thoughts, but he can't pass up a chance to see Kylo. It's in the suburbs, at a big house on a cul-de-sac with two carved jack-o-lanterns on the porch and a plastic skeleton hanging on the front door. The kind of place Matt's mom would have loved to live, instead of the shitty little apartments they bounced between. Unless Hux is weirdly rich or something, it must belong to his parents.

The party's already going on when Matt arrives, trendy music blaring loud enough to be heard on the sidewalk. Matt's not the kind of guy who gets invited to a lot of parties, but he remembered, at the last minute, his mom once telling him that it was better to be “fashionably late than annoyingly early.” He gets off the bus a block from the address Kylo gave him and walks the rest of the way, the six-pack he stopped off to buy swinging from one hand. He pauses when he gets to the end of the long driveway, looking at the lit-up house in front of him. _Just go up_ , he tells himself, but his feet ignore the order.

It's late for trick-or-treating, but a couple of boys, maybe thirteen or fourteen years old, come up the sidewalk carrying bulging pillowcases weighed down with candy. One's wearing a gorilla mask and street clothes, the other has some half-assed green Frankenstein makeup. Matt hears them laugh, and ignites a powerful, painful jealousy inside him. 

Matt never went trick-or-treating, not really. The neighbourhoods he lived in were always too dangerous. When he was young, his mom took him to the mall, but even then, he knew there was something not quite authentic about going from one brightly lit storefront to another, begging candy from cashiers and pharmacists and shit. When he was older, he didn't have anyone to go with. He's never had a really good friend, not even one, ever. 

_Except you do, dumbass._ Matt blinks at his own vehemence. _You were supposed to be at his place tonight, remember?_ Matt shakes his head. Techie's got enough problems already. He doesn't need Matt in his life. 

He steps back, a little, and the boys jostle past him. One of them pushes the other off the edge of the little brick path, onto Hux's parents' pristine lawn. “Fuck off, Josh!” The pushed one cries, gleefully, scooping up his dropped pillowcase. They elbow each other all the way up to Hux's door. Matt looks away, his eye catching on a flash of something on the grass. He bends over and picks it up: a tiny package of Twizzlers. _Fuck_ , Matt thinks, although he's not sure where he's aiming that thought. 

Someone opens the front door. Matt doesn't see who it is, but moments later, the boys are coming back down the path, still laughing and shoving each other. “Hey,” Matt says, when they reach him. Their laughter dies. They square their shoulders and stare at him defiantly, but Matt can see their nervousness in their eyes. He holds up the beer. “I'll trade you this for your candy.” 

Five minutes later, Matt's back at the bus stop, a floral patterned pillowcase clutched in his hands. 

Techie seems surprised when he opens the door. He blinks even more than usual, although he lets Matt in. “I, um, I didn't know if you were...”

“Sorry,” Matt says, swallowing a lump of emotion that suddenly blocks his throat. “I should have let you know.”

“It's, um, it's okay. Only, I don't have anything to eat.” 

Matt holds up the pillowcase. “I brought dinner.” 

Matt dumps the pillowcase out on the floor in front of Techie's sofa. As they're sorting it into piles, Techie picks up a handful of caramels. “You know about my mom,” he says. Before Matt can reply, he continues, his hands stacking the caramels into a pyramid then knocking it down again while he talks. “I mean, where I grew up. It's, it's okay. It always happens. Once people find out, um, about that, they take off. I don't blame them.” 

Jealousy surges through Matt, more irrational than ever. Of course Matt wouldn't be Techie's first friend. _I'm going to be his fucking best, though,_ Matt tells himself, frowning hard enough to make his head hurt. “She wasn't really your mom, though. Right?” 

“I lived with her for, for almost eight years.” Techie sighs. “I know she was really, um, really really bad. Of course I know that. But I, I, I still...miss her.” His eyes come up. “That's fucked up.”

“We're all fucked up, man.” If there's one thing Matt's learned, it's that. He reaches over and takes the caramels from Techie, tossing them into the “miscellaneous candies” pile. 

They angle the sofa so they can sit on it to watch the movie. Techie insists that Matt choose what they watch, so he goes with “The Shining”, because he knows Techie likes old shit and, while he's never seen it, Matt's pretty sure there won't be anything Techie can accidentally relate to. It's not as boring as Matt expected. He's on the edge of his seat, even, a half-chewed miniature Milky Way abandoned in his mouth while Jack Nicholson chops at the door with an axe. 

“She used to give me Twizzlers,” Techie says, suddenly. Matt swallows and looks back at him. “Ma Ma,” Techie goes on. “When I was good. That's why I like them. I tried to get onto beer, as a, a, a replacement, but it didn't work.” 

“That's...” Matt hesitates. “Okay, I guess? I mean, it could be worse. Beer is probably worse.”

Techie hesitates for a second, like he's considering this. “Yeah,” he determines. He looks back at the screen. “That's, ah, what happened to us,” he says, as Jack Nicholson bursts through. “I mean, um, not exactly, but that's how they found us.” Matt doesn't say anything. What could he say? “There was this, ah, this this neighbour,” Techie goes on. “He moved in next door. He hated Ma Ma. They were always, um, fighting. I don't know what about.” Techie swallows. A glassy look comes to his eyes, like he's not even here anymore. Without thinking about it, Matt reaches out and touches the back of Techie's hand. Techie doesn't pull away. “One day, she, um, she passed out. Drunk. That happened a lot. But this neighbour started banging on the door, yelling he wanted to talk to her.” He shakes his head, then brushes his hair from his face. “We were all so, so fucking scared. One of the girls, the one who wrote the um, wrote the book, said that if we stayed quiet he would go away. So we did. But he kept banging. Then the door kind of, you know, came off its hinges.”

“Fuck,” Matt interjects, for no other reason than to remind Techie he's here, and they aren't really back there, in that place. 

“I don't think he meant for it to do that, but the house was in such, such, ah, shitty condition. The sun was so bright, I remember that, and he looked really, um, really surprised. He just kind of stared at us for a minute, then he said, 'Oh, Jesus.'” Techie lets out a breath. “After that, they took us away and they sent Ma Ma to prison.” 

“How...” Matt's voice cracks. He clears his throat. “How old were you?”

Techie's eyes flick over, to meet his in the dim light. “Fourteen. He was a good guy. The neighbour, I mean. A judge. He helped us get some money, in, ah, in court, from the people who were supposed to, you know, be watching out for us, but I haven't spoken to him for a long time.”

“Do you speak to the other kids who were there?” Techie shakes his head. “What about your real family? Like, your birth family?” 

“Ma Ma always said my mom was a crack addict and a, a, a....” He reddens a little. “A prostitute,” he finishes, with a sigh. “Afterward, I thought maybe she was lying, but it was, you know, it was true. My real mom is dead. So I don't have any family at all.” 

Matt doesn't reply, but he shifts closer, moving his hand from on top of Techie's to beside it, lacing their fingers together. He doesn't think about it until after he's done it, when they're actually holding hands. It should feel awkward, and really fucking weird, but it doesn't, not at all. 

Matt's hand gets really sweaty really fast, but he doesn't pull away. Neither does Techie. When the movie finishes, he expects Techie to make some “no homo” joke, although Techie has never made any kind of joke in the time Matt's known him. He doesn't say anything. Casually, Matt glances over to see Techie's leaning back with his head on the sofa, his eyes closed and his mouth open, just a little. 

All of a sudden, Matt's chest hurts. The apartment is dark, practically black now that the screen is showing only the rolling credits. He bites his lip. He could carry Techie to his bedroom. He's strong and Techie is skinny, but he doesn't know how to do that without waking Techie up. Instead, Matt carefully brings his other hand up to Techie's shoulder. He nudges Techie with his body, gently pushing him over onto his back. Techie snuffles, but he doesn't open his eyes. Matt ends up mostly on top of him, their hands twisted uncomfortably against the back of the sofa. Just as he's about to let go, to sit up and figure out whether he's going to leave or go sleep in Techie's bed or what, Techie releases Matt's hand and puts his arms around Matt's neck. 

“Matt,” he murmurs, his eyes still shut. 

“It's okay,” Matt's heart is pounding so hard, he's sure it's about to burst free, like something out of a horror movie or a Warner Brothers cartoon. “Just...” He doesn't get chance to finish his sentence. Techie pulls him down, closing the last few inches between them, and kisses him. 

He tastes like a candy factory, like a childhood dream of sugar and artificial flavours mixed up with a very adult fantasy of wet warmth and soft hands, which slide from Matt's shoulders up to his face. It's fucking amazing. In a second, Matt's hard as a rock, guilt chasing desire as both course through his body. “Techie...” 

“She never touched me that way,” Techie whispers, which is such a depressing fucking thing to say, even to think, that Matt wants to punch a wall, then go down to wherever Ma Ma fucking Madrigal is being kept and do the same to her face. 

“I was going to say you're really fucking hot,” Matt replies. It's true. Techie sighs, but he smiles, too. Matt takes that as permission to let one of his big, ungainly hands slip beneath the hem of Techie's shirt, as Techie kisses him again. 

Next time, they're going to do it on the bed. Matt decides this afterward, as they lie together on the lumpy sofa, their long, intertwined legs splayed over the end and Matt's ass hanging in the breeze. That there's going to be a next time seems a foregone conclusion, at least from Matt's point of view. By the way Techie is smiling, his face against Matt's neatly trimmed chest and his come drying on Matt's flat, muscled stomach, it seems like he agrees. 

A million questions tumble in Matt's mind. He settles on the least important one. “Did they call you Techie? I mean, when you were...there?” 

“They didn't call me anything.” Techie's voice is dreamy, like he's more than halfway to being asleep. “That's what I call myself.” 

“Okay.” That's good. Matt shifts, crowding Techie deeper into the back of the sofa. His ass is freezing, but if Techie wants to doze here for a while, Matt doesn't have the heart to make him move. Instead, he reaches up and pulls the ratty blanket over both of them. Techie pushes closer still. 

“Techie.” The word slips out as a whisper. 

“Hmm?” 

His head is full, but Matt doesn't know what to say next. There are so many wrong turns he could take, and Matt can't bring himself to risk wrecking what is shaping up to be the most perfect moment in his life. It's not like he's had a lot of them. “Do you like Settlers of Catan?” He asks, then grimaces. Techie just hums, his breath warm and candy-scented on Matt's face, and goes to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Includes non-graphic mention of past abuse. Matt provides beer to young teenagers. Grasshopper mice can kill and eat scorpions.


End file.
